


oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you

by RainbowRandomness



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sharing a Bed, Time Skips, Unrequited Love, Virus, android gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 04:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15622545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowRandomness/pseuds/RainbowRandomness
Summary: It’s been months, and the idea of wanting something for himself is a foreign concept that Connor’s still trying to adjust to. He’s never wanted anything before, was neverallowedto want, but this-Hewantsthis.





	oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you

**Author's Note:**

> inspo found [here](https://cloudycave.tumblr.com/post/174366544067#notes) and a lil something extra [here](http://samijen.tumblr.com/post/176407091216/never-forget-him-retweet-it-patreon) and my original ramblings found [here](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/post/176441941931/i-just-saw-the-art-you-reblogged-of-connor-with) and [here](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/post/176456793001/connor-would-try-to-hide-it-cause-he-doesnt)
> 
> I... have spent way too much of my free time writing this and ngl writing this has been a journey of blood, sweat, and tears and late nights/mornings writing until 4am and beyond. it's been a wild one. 
> 
> I'm dedicating this fic to [tsunderehank](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/) because their blog is lovely and they've been putting up with me sending them multiple asks cause I'm way too engrossed in dbh (and, more specifically, Hank and Connor) so give them a follow cause they're wonderful 
> 
> ALSO, one other thing; ignore any and all technical talk I write in this fic cause I haven't got one fuckin clue how androids work so any bullshit about diagnostics or coding is just off the fly bullshit that I'm desperately trying to make sound legit in some way. I'm human so Connor probably sounds/acts more human than android in this anyway
> 
> anyWAY I hope ya'll enjoy this
> 
> Title from _Bloom_ by The Paper Kites
> 
> **[24/01/2019]** [kseniamayer](http://kseniamayer.tumblr.com/) has very kindly taken the time and translated this fic into Russian! for anyone who fancies reading it you can read it [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7801805)!

It’s a night like any other when it first happens.

After the android revolution, Connor hadn’t had anywhere to go. CyberLife was no longer an option, and he hadn’t had the means to acquire his own property to return to when he was not at the precinct. When he had reunited with Hank outside the Chicken Feed food truck and been offered a place in Hank’s home, the relief and happiness he had felt had been overwhelming.

Connor gazes up at the ceiling, LED circling round and round in one continuous motion at his temple. Beside him Hank snores softly, face mostly pressed into his pillow as he grips at it loosely in his sleep.

When he had initially moved in, Connor had explained to Hank that he didn’t require a bed to sleep in. He needed to enter into stasis every once in a while to allow his body to regulate and update itself, but that could be done while standing or sitting and he didn’t need to lie down in a bed to do so.

Despite Connor explaining this, Hank had merely grunted and told him that it would be weird and creepy if Connor stood in a corner to power down every other night and that he could share Hank’s bed instead. Connor had tried to argue against it, reassuring Hank that it wasn’t necessary and that he didn’t want to disturb Hank while he slept, but his partner had only brushed away his protests and pulled him into the bed to sleep for the night.

That was how it had been for the past few months now; each night Connor would join Hank and sleep beside him, taking comfort in his presence as he slept. Some nights, when he didn’t feel the need to enter into stasis, he just lay next to Hank, watching his partner as he slept and cataloguing the various details about him. He’d keep track of his resting heart rate, how comfortable he was, take note of any signs that indicated he was dreaming.

And, though he wouldn’t admit it, sometimes he just… took in the sight of Hank. Committing to his memory the way Hank’s hair fell across his face when he leant into his pillow, how his eyelids would flutter as he dreamed. The gentle rise and fall of his chest with each deep, steady breath, and how his cheeks took on a pinkish hue when he got too warm beneath the covers.

Sometimes he was even awake to watch Hank move in his sleep, curling his body closer to Connor unconsciously. Connor liked being awake to see this, to watch as Hank moved closer to him until they were touching, even if it was only an arm across his chest or a leg thrown over his. It gave him that pleasantly warm feeling that he liked, with little sparks running up along his spine each time a part of Hank casually touched him while he continued to sleep.

Connor watches his LED flicker to yellow as its light projects against the bedroom wall. It’s for this reason that he had insisted on sleeping on the right side of the bed, so the light emitting from his LED couldn’t disturb Hank while he slept. He looks towards the bedroom wall now out of the corner of his eye, watching the light change from yellow to blue, flickering to yellow again, and then settling on it.

It causes his lips to twist down in a frown; clearly he was thinking too hard.

Shifting his position slightly, he turns so he can look at Hank fully. His face is mostly pressed into his pillow, grey hair spilling over his closed eyes, and his lips are parted ever so slightly, enough that Connor can glimpse the bottoms of his front teeth.

For reasons unbeknownst to him, he feels the need to reach out and touch. His hand comes up from where it had been resting atop the covers until his fingers are hovering just in front of Hank’s face, and he hesitates for only a minute before he reaches out the rest of the way to press his fingertips lightly against Hank’s bottom lip.

It’s soft; Connor wasn’t sure what else he had been expecting. His lips are slightly dry from where Hank’s been breathing, but soft and pliant beneath Connor’s fingers nonetheless. He finds himself pushing down, gently so as not to wake Hank, until he can see the tops of his bottom row of teeth.

It makes him feel warm, almost dizzy. Connor wonders briefly what would happen if he slipped a finger inside and pressed down against Hank’s warm, wet tongue. What Hank would do if he woke up to the feeling of Connor’s fingers pressing into his mouth, if he would close his lips around the digits and suck.

The thoughts make Connor’s breath stutter. He doesn’t notice his LED circle to red.

It’s been months, and the idea of wanting something for himself is a foreign concept that Connor’s still trying to adjust to. He’s never wanted anything before, was never _allowed_ to want, but this-

Tentatively, he presses another finger against Hank’s bottom lip and feels a tremor run through his circuits when Hank’s warm breath ghosts across the sensitive pads of his fingers.

He _wants_ this.

He’s just- he’s not sure that Hank would want the same.

Inside his chest, something blooms. Something that aches, something that… something that’s _painful_. It makes him retract his fingers from Hank’s lips and curl in on himself, hands moving to clutch at his chest. He closes his eyes against the pain and bites at his bottom lip to keep in the whimper that threatens to escape his throat.

Androids… androids don’t feel pain. It’s a common known fact that they don’t. Connor’s never experienced it before, doesn’t have any prior experience to compare the feeling to, but whatever the feeling in his chest is… it _hurts_. It feels like his internal coding is changing somehow, shifting so that something else can fill its place, something that… something that’s _growing_ in its place, something that shouldn’t _be_ there, and yet…

“Connor.”

Connor opens his eyes to find Hank watching him. His eyes are half lidded from having just woken up and there’s a small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. Connor blinks a few times to collect himself and then opens his mouth to speak.

“Sorry. I- I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hank grunts in reply, shifting slightly beneath the covers. “You’re LED’s going nuts.”

Without thinking, Connor reaches up to press his fingers against his LED, feeling a slight hum under his fingertips. “Sorry.”

Hank regards him for a moment, lips pursing in thought. “You know it’s glowing red, right?”

He stills before shaking his head minutely; he hadn’t realised. He moves his fingers so that they cover his LED entirely, the room falling further into darkness.

Silence fills the room and Connor finds himself averting his gaze. Usually he doesn’t mind being under Hank’s scrutiny and will face him head on, but after what just happened he finds himself feeling somewhat bashful, almost ashamed of what he’d done, what he’d been thinking. He curls in on himself further.

It’s a testament to how unfocused he is that he doesn’t notice Hank move until his hand is closing around Connor’s wrist and moving his hand away from his temple. Connor doesn’t try to resist, simply allows himself to be moved as Hank wishes and keeps his eyes trained downward, staring intently at the bedcovers.

“It’s back to blue,” Hank murmurs, fingers still clasped around Connor’s wrist.

Connor’s fingers twitch (one of many nervous ticks he’s found he’s adopted over time) where Hank’s holding his hand in the air. After another beat passes by, Hank shifts, moving their hands until they’re resting atop the covers, right in Connor’s line of sight. He tries not to let his sharp intake of breath be obvious when he notes how Hank doesn’t let go of his wrist.

Another pause; Hank’s the first to speak again. “You want to talk about it?”

Connor isn’t sure what to say. He shakes his head and tries for a small smile, hoping to reassure his partner that he’s okay. Hank still hasn’t let go of his wrist.

“I’m fine Lieut-” Hank scowls at him, “- Hank.”

Some old habits die hard. Hank had been quick in informing Connor that he was allowed to call him by his name instead of his title after he moved in, especially outside of work. For the most part, Connor manages just fine, but there are times when he slips into his old ways and it’s like back when they first met, unsure of each other with Connor being wholly professional and formal when addressing his partner.

He often finds the slip occurs when dealing with a new found emotion or experience, something he is unsure how to traverse yet. It’s almost comforting to slip back into how his former self would think and act when faced with something new; it lessens the overwhelming feeling that makes him feel like he could drown.

Hank’s thumb swipes idly across his wrist, back and forth, a repetitive motion that brings Connor back from his thoughts. Connor focuses on the feel of it, the scrape of Hank’s calloused skin against his synthetic counterpart, and closes his eyes.

“I’m fine Hank,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “please go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

There’s a moment where Hank doesn’t reply and Connor worries that he might press the matter. Then there’s a heavy sigh and the sounds of the mattress groaning gently as Hank shifts his weight beneath the blankets. Connor assumes he’s settling himself into a more comfortable position to sleep, possibly turning over to face away from Connor, until he suddenly feels Hank draw himself closer. He stills, artificial breath halting when he feels Hank’s nose gently brush against his forehead.

“Night Connor.”

The ache within him grows; he resists the urge to push closer, to curl himself against Hank’s body and drown in the feel of him, all soft skin and curves and the smell of sweat.

Against his wrist, Hank’s thumb swipes once across his skin.

“Goodnight Hank.”

 

-

 

There are flowers blooming within his lungs.

He runs the diagnostic again; the same results come back to him, declaring what Connor would have thought to be impossible. His internal coding has changed, lines of letters, numbers, and symbols shifting to make room for new code that writes itself in the blank spaces left behind. Where the unfamiliar code appears, flowers bloom, each letter and number written into the shape of a small, inconspicuous _scorpion grasses_.

Forget-me-not’s.

He closes his internal diagnostic panel and blinks, eyes fluttering as he opens them. From the bathroom mirror his reflection watches him; his eyes travel down to the thirium that drips from his parted lips. It’s a thin substance, running lazily from his mouth and over his chin, collecting at the bottom before it falls, another drop added to the mess of it left in the sink below.

There are petals scattered around the basin, mixed in alongside his blood. They’re small, already curling in on themselves as they slide towards the plug or stick to the sides of the sink. When he reaches out to touch one, it’s soft, unbearably so. No one would suspect that something so delicate and small could hurt so much.

Against his temple his LED flickers, the red light circling once, twice, before it settles on a neutral yellow. He averts his gaze from it, though he can’t help but notice how it flickers to red briefly after every other spin.

A petal clings to the corner of his lips. Reaching up, he plucks it from his skin, thirium residue left in its place, staining his pale skin. Connor’s never thought before about how pale his skin was; in comparison to the thirium smattered alongside his freckles and moles, he can’t help but notice how sickly it makes him look.

He touches his fingers to his lips, smears his blood across them idly. Opens his mouth and watches his artificial spit already begin to clean his mouth, washing away any evidence of his blood, of the flowers that have taken up residence in his biocomponents. He plucks another petal from inside the corner of his cheek and lets it fall from his bloodied fingers into the sink with the others.

The _swoosh_ of the water releasing from the tap is too loud in the quiet of the night. Connor pauses for a moment to strain his hearing; over the sound of the rushing water, he can still make out Hank’s gentle breathing from the bedroom and knows he’s not been woken from Connor’s new nightly ritual. The water continues to wash away the evidence down the drain.

He bends down to wash his face, cupping the cool water in his hands to brush over his lips, against his chin, watching the clear water briefly turn a deep blue before it disappears. There are nights where Connor worries that the flowers will clog the drain, that one night he’ll try to wash them away as if they were never there and instead find them swirling back to the surface on a wave of water and thirium. He leans back and watches with hooded, tired eyes as the petals and blood wash away, the drain gurgling with the effort when he turns off the tap.

It’s been over two months since he first began feeling pain and a only a week or two since he started throwing up flowers. As each new day passes it seems as though the pressure in his chest only continues to grow, until suddenly he can no longer breathe, suffocating on petals that bloom in his lungs. It is then, in the early hours of the morning, when the sky is still dark and the world is silent, that Connor finds himself retching into the bathroom sink, thirium and flowers burning his throat and staining the basin.

He blinks, eyes returning to the mirror. A droplet of water runs down his cheek, curves down towards his chin before breaking off and falling from his face. He watches its descent, hears the _plip_ as it hits the sink. Outside, somewhere distant, a dog howls into the night.

He hasn’t told Hank. He’s not sure how he would; he doesn’t understand what this is, how it came to be, or what it means. How is he meant to explain to someone he cares about that he’s experiencing pain for the first time in his life and that it’s taking over his entire existence? That, despite everything that says it shouldn’t be possible, there are flowers growing in his lungs? How is he meant to tell him that every other night is spent with blood on his lips and petals filling the drain?

How is he meant to tell someone he loves that he feels like he’s dying and he has no idea how to stop it from happening?

The cool surface of the mirror against his fevered skin is a small reprieve. He closes his eyes, keeps his forehead pressed against its surface, and braces himself.

Reaching down, his fingers grip the bottom of his sleepshirt (an old, worn thing found within the hidden depths of Hank’s wardrobe) and hesitates only briefly before he pulls the material up to reveal his mole smattered chest. Without opening his eyes, he reaches up and gently presses his fingers against his chest until he can feel his skin retract around his midsection, revealing the white exterior of his chassis and the softly glowing ring light of his thirium pump.

He opens his eyes, gaze landing instantly upon the ring light centered just beneath where his breastbone would be. It’s glowing softly in the low light of the bathroom, a gentle blue that would calming if it were not for the ring of forget-me-not’s that framed the rim.

When he had seen the first flower bud push its way out from underneath his chassis he had tried to pull it from the stem, hoping to dislodge the root and stop the growth altogether. Instead, his knees had buckled with the pain and since then he had left the flowers to grow, watching their progress with a steadily growing feeling of dread that settled itself low in his stomach.

They had initially been a small cluster, only one or two poking through, but in a short amount of time they had managed to multiply rapidly. Where one flower had bloomed, two more had followed suit, and then another three, until suddenly the rim of his thirium pump was overrun with the flora. Within the last week alone he had begun to notice the delicate flowers surface in other areas, following the seams in his chassis and causing the cracks to glow blue.

The flowers alone were difficult to hide beneath his clothing; hiding the glow of his own skin was an entirely different feat altogether.

Connor watches his skin return, creeping along his chassis until the white plastic has been hidden once again behind freckled, human skin. The flowers still poke through though, unable to be masked beneath his artificial skin, and the seams running along his chassis glow softly, their light breaking through most prominently where each flower blooms.

He lets go of his shirt and turns away from the mirror, shutting off the light as he finally leaves and makes his way back to bed.

The door to their bedroom creaks lightly when Connor pushes it open and once more when he pushes it shut. He moves cautiously across the floor, careful not to step on anything or make a sound as he returns to his side of the bed and dips beneath the heavy covers.

Hank’s breath hitches when Connor lays down and he pauses in his movements, worried he’s woken him. It becomes obvious after another beat that he’s still asleep and Connor continues his descent beneath the covers until he’s tucked beneath their warmth, head nestled into his pillow.

Just as he’s about to close his eyes, Hank shuffles closer in his sleep, arm reaching out blindly in search of Connor. He grunts in his sleep, brow furrowing for a moment until his hand finally lands on Connor’s arm and he grips him tightly, pulling him closer until Connor is flush against Hank’s chest.

His LED circles to yellow briefly before returning to its usual blue. He sees the light projected against the ceiling and keeps himself still, waiting for Hank to move again, but the only other movement he makes is to slide his hand from his arm, travelling lower until his warm hand rests just above the small of Connor’s back.

There’s a brief moment where he imagines the forget-me-not’s growing beneath the warmth of Hank’s palm, surging up to breach the surface of his skin in search of Hank’s. The image of rundown gardens left to the wild whims of nature comes to mind and Connor closes his eyes, settling himself against Hank’s body as he synchronises their breathing.

By the small of his back, another flower blooms.

 

-

 

He knew he couldn’t keep it a secret forever.

They’re chasing after a suspect when it finally happens. Connor has the lead on the perp, running quickly up each flight of stairs and avoiding debris on the way. He knows the suspect is heading towards the roof and he needs to intercept him before he can try and do anything drastic.

It reminds him of chasing after Rupert all those months ago; they’re in a rundown apartment complex, corridors unkempt and littered with miscellaneous waste, wallpaper peeling from the walls and there are more broken windows than not. The guy that they’re chasing is someone that the DPD has been after for weeks following an obvious trail of anti-android hate crimes that has left more and more androids severely injured or dead. Despite the efficiency of his crimes, he was otherwise sloppy in covering his tracks, and it hadn’t taken long to find where he was hiding and go after him.

They had meant to take him by surprise, which clearly hadn’t worked. The perp had bolted the moment he caught sight of them and Connor had been quick to run after him, ensuring that he didn’t get away.

Connor hears the door to the roof being shoved open and quickens his pace, practically flying up the last few steps. He catches sight of the suspect as he makes a dash through the door and Connor follows, shoving the door open again before it even has time to close.

“Stop!”

There split second it takes for the person to glance over their shoulder towards him is a second to Connor’s advantage. He advances on them, artificial lungs burning and legs straining with how far he’s pushing himself but he’s getting close. He calls out to them a second time, hoping to distract them again; they’re reaching the rooftops edge and Connor isn’t willingly to risk them attempting something drastic to escape him.

It works; by the time they look back at him he’s close enough to reach out and grab them by the arm, pulling them to the side and further away from the roof’s edge. The moment he has a hold on them they start to fight back, arms swinging, hoping to land a punch. The perp manages to connect his fist with Connor’s collarbone and he stumbles just slightly, but his grip on them doesn’t flater.

After landing one punch they try again, and Connor leans back in anticipation, attempting to avoid the blow. Connor sees the moment the person decides to change tactics but before he can recalculate his opponents move, their fingers are reaching towards the center of Connor’s chest, right where his thirium pump lies.

It’s over before he even fully registers what’s happened; the person fits his fingers around Connor’s thirium pump and _pulls_ , tugging hard enough to make Connor stagger forwards. The man is stronger than Connor had initially realised and with one final, brutal tug, the biocomponent is ripped from his chest with a sickening sound that makes Connor wince.

“What the _fuck_?”

He can’t focus on anything; he hears the man speak, hears the confused horror lacing his words. Connor’s grip on the man slackens until he feels the man pull away, staggering back from the sight laid out before him.

Everything _hurts_. Static begins to fill the edges of his vision, cutting through his sight as colour starts to fade, until all he can see is grey and the glaring red of error messages popping up in his peripheral. His diagnostic panel opens out of the corner of his eye, code frantically being written until a timer appears, jumbled and lagging, telling him how long he has left before he shuts down.

He stumbles forward, reaching a trembling hand out towards the man. He opens his mouth to speak and feels thirium drip past his lips, gurgling in his throat. The man screams, dropping the thirium pump to the floor, and runs away as Connor falls to the ground.

Distantly, he hears the door to the roof open. He hasn’t got the strength to look up, assumes the suspect has managed to escape and curses to himself for being so useless.

“ _Connor!_ ”

He closes his eyes and sinks to the ground. His fingers shake when he reaches up to touch his chest, wet with thirium that’s spreading quickly, staining his white shirt a deep, dark blue. It flows past his pale skin and down onto the unforgiving ground, a small pool beginning to form.

“Connor! Oh god, Connor, hang on-”

He thinks of the flowers; that’s what had hurt more. Not his pump being ripped from his person, but the flowers being ripped from their roots, pulled free from the home that they had made in him.

“What th- what the fuck, Connor, oh god, what the _fuck_ -”

It’s Hank’s voice, he registers belatedly.

He grunts when his body is jostled from his position on the ground, Hank maneuvering him until he’s propped up on his lap, head cradled in the crook of Hank’s arm. He presses his forehead against Hank’s chest, curling into his touch. When he opens his mouth to speak, his blood smears across Hank’s jacket.

“Hank-”

His voice is filled with static, garbled and difficult to discern. The timer continues to count down.

“Connor- fucking hell, _fuck_ , stay with me Connor,” there’s a hard smack against his cheek and his eyes flutter open briefly before closing again, “keep those eyes open Connor, fuck sake, Connor, _stay with me_ -”

He goes to speak again and finds himself gasping instead; Hank’s hand is pressing against the opening in his chest, thirium pump gripped tightly in his palm. He pushes down, shoving the pump back into place and Connor spasms in his arms, hands coming up to claw desperately at Hank's shoulders.

It hurts; everything does. There’s blood gurgling in his throat, spilling out past his lips when he opens his mouth on an agonized groan. He presses his face into Hank’s chest, chokes on the flower petals that have lined his throat, hacking and coughing on them until they come up and spill down his chin. He doesn’t notice the mess he’s made of Hank’s jacket until he opens his eyes and sees the petals clinging to the fabric, covered in his blood.

His vision restores itself, static creeping away and colour returning almost instantly. He coughs again, chokes momentarily on a forget-me-not that tickles his throat. It slips past his tongue and holds fast to his bottom lip and he winces, knowing that Hank can see it.

There are flowers and blood spattered everywhere. His shirt clings to him wetly, blue blood soaking his front and drowning the flowers that had grown across his skin, in the rim of his pump. He’s soiled Hank’s coat and his fingers are shaking where they’re gripping Hank’s shoulder.

He let’s go, not missing the way Hank winces.

“Hank, I-”

Fingers press against his lips, effectively silencing him. He lets his eyes droop when Hank’s thumb comes up to brush across his lips, smearing Connor’s blood across the pad of it. A petal sticks to his skin and Connor wants to chase it away with his tongue.

Beneath his ear, Hank’s voice rumbles from his chest.

“Let’s get you home.”

 

-

 

The drive home is silent.

The tension in the air is palpable. Connor senses it and keeps his eyes trained on the passenger side window, watching as the streets pass them by outside. He hasn’t been able to look Hank in the eyes once since coming down from the rooftop, and even now he finds he can’t manage it.

The shame, the fear, is too great. Worry knots itself within his stomach and his thirium pump beats uneasily in his chest, making him feel queasy. He’s already felt two forget-me-not’s bloom around its rim, painfully replacing the ones that had been ripped out on the roof. He knows Hank has seen them, can’t miss them when his shirt is bloodied and tattered, ripped open to reveal his chest and every flower that has bloomed across his skin in the last few months. They’re there, clear as day, all for Hank to see.

He squeezes his eyes shut; he’d tried so hard to hide them from him.

When Hank finally parks the car outside his house, he still doesn’t say anything. Connor follows him silently indoors and waits patiently beside him when Hank reaches down to pet Sumo hello. The dog wags his tail happily, oblivious to the careful spell that has fallen over his owner and his android. He greets Connor with a brush of his head against Connor’s leg when Hank stands and moves away, and Connor reaches down to scratch Sumo gently behind his ear.

Hank disappears into the bathroom and a moment later the sound of water running hits his ears. He stands awkwardly in the living room, contemplating what his next move should be, when Hank appears back in the bathroom doorway. Without saying a word he beckons Connor over with a wave of his hand and Connor follows obediently.

Hank is leaning against the sink when Connor enters, arms folded across his chest. The blue residue of Connor’s blood still stains the front of his coat; in a few hours it will become invisible, as though it was never there to begin with.

He pushes himself away from the sink when Connor comes in, arms unfolding to hang by his sides. Connor feels as though he should say something, lips parting with the thought, but he doesn’t know what to say. He keeps his eyes trained to the floor, unable to meet Hank’s eyes.

Hank steps forward, his feet coming into Connor’s line of sight.

“Wait here,” he says, voice low, void of any hint of emotion. He slides past Connor and heads for the door before he turns, eyes looking over Connor quickly. The scrutiny makes him want to fidget.

“Strip off and leave your clothes by the door. Don’t worry about folding them or nothin’, just leave them in a pile, alright? I’ll get them later.”

Connor nods his understanding. Hank’s still looking at him and his fingers twitch with the urge to do something.

“When you’re ready, get in the bath. I won’t be long.”

With that, he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him. Connor waits a moment before beginning to strip, slipping his jacket from his shoulders in one fluid motion. He considers what Hank had said about not needing to fold his clothes and decides to anyway; the notion of purposefully discarding his clothes in a heap irks him. He places his neatly folded clothes beside the door, keeping his stained shirt seperate from the rest. The white cotton had taken the brunt of the damage and would need the most care, but the rest of his uniform was still mostly in tack, though they could use a good wash.

So could he; he glances at himself in the mirror, eyes trailing from one spattered mole to the next along his skin, taking note of every flower that had bloomed along the way. There’s thirium splattered around his pump, flecks of the blue liquid spread up across his chest and down over his abdomen. He looks like a walking crime scene and the thought makes him shudder.

He turns away from the mirror and steps towards the bath. He can feel the heat emitting from the water and pauses briefly before stepping in, gingerly lowering himself in. The water sloshes around him before settling when he sits down, petals washing off of him to float along the water's surface.

He watches his blood mix with the clear water until it begins to turn blue; he draws his knees to his chest and waits.

Hank doesn’t take long. When he returns he’s wearing a worn grey shirt and a pair of loose fitting jogging bottoms. There’s a towel slung under one arm and something else slung under the other; Connor guesses it may be a change of clothes for him, though he doesn’t ask to confirm his suspicions.

He places them by the sink, pausing momentarily. Connor watches him, waiting for the spell to finally break, for Hank to finally snap at him.

He doesn’t; he pushes himself away from the sink, seemingly having collected himself, and moves to kneel down on the floor beside the bath. He groans with the effort of lowering himself but doesn’t complain, simply shifts until he’s comfortable and then leans against the side of the bath, arms coming up to rest against the rim.

Silence drapes over them like a heavy blanket, thick and almost stifling. Droplets from the tap hitting the water's surface is the only sound punctuating the air. Connor doesn’t dare to move and after a moment or two Hank sighs, lowering his head until his chin rests atop his crossed arms. He shifts until a hand comes free and lowers it into the water, swirling an intact forget-me-not around his finger. It glides across the waters surface and Connor watches, waiting.

Another beat of silence. And then, finally-

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Connor slowly releases the breath he’d been holding. He clutches his legs tighter to his chest and watches the water ripple with his movements.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Hank’s brow creases with a frown at the admission. “How long has this been going on for?”

He hesitates to answer. “A few months.”

The breath Hank lets go of is a drawn out sigh that causes him to close his eyes. He presses his forehead into his arm and Connor feels his shoulders hunch in, arms drawing themselves tighter around himself. His LED circles to yellow against his temple.

“I’m sorry Hank,” his voice is small; he feels like drawing in on himself until there’s nothing of him left to see but a cluster of forget-me-not’s. He never wanted to hurt Hank, and in trying to avoid doing so he’s ended up hurting him even more.

Hank growls in frustration. The hand dipped in the water clenches into a fist and Connor shrinks away from him, panic rising at the thought that he’d said something wrong. He opens his mouth to say something else and startles when Hank reaches out to grab his arm, water sloshing over the rim of the bath at the sudden movements. His fingers dig into Connor’s soft skin and he whimpers when he feels a flower become crushed beneath Hank’s palm.

“ _Do not_ \- Connor, don’t you _dare_ be sorry,” his voice is low, a deep rumble pulled from the depths of his chest. Connor whimpers again, squirming in his grasp and Hank’s hold on him loosens.

“Don’t- don’t be sorry. Christ, Connor, just-” he struggles to find the right words, fingers twitching against Connor’s arm as he searches for what to say. He pulls his hand away from Connor’s arm to run his fingers through his hair in frustration, and Connor watches as the crushed forget-me-not falls to the water below.

He pauses, a sigh escaping past his lips. He runs a hand over his face, fingers rubbing at his eyes. He suddenly looks tired, worn out from the stress of the day, and something in Connor aches at the sight. A part of him wants to reach out, wants to pull Hank against him and reassure him that he’s fine, that he’s okay; tell him that he’s sorry for doing this, for lying to him, for keeping everything a secret. His fingers twitch beneath the water with the urge but he keeps still, waits patiently for Hank to continue.

“I wish you’d told me. I get why you didn’t, I get you didn’t want to worry me,” he starts before pausing, mouth twisting into a pained grimace, “I get it Connor, I do, but- but _fuck_ , seeing you- seeing you lying there today… you have to understand what that did to me Connor, to see you lying there on the ground, your fucking _blood_ pooling onto the floor around you-”

He stops, heaves in a shaky breath. “God Connor, I was _scared_. I thought I was going to fucking lose you, and I- Connor, I _can’t_ -”

Before he realises he’s even moved, Connor reaches out and rests his hand atop Hank’s arm. When Hank looks at him from behind his hand, he gives his arm a gentle squeeze and tries for a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay Hank. I’m not- I’m not going anywhere.”

He wants to say it; the words push at the backs of his teeth, clinging to the tip of his tongue. He swallows thickly and chokes as flowers work their way up from his lungs.

“Connor…”

He averts his eyes, staring down at the water. He clamps his mouth shut, lips thinning as he tries not to let the flora escape his throat, petals fluttering to fill his mouth.

When Hank’s fingers reach out to brush against his cheek he flinches, jerking back with surprise. Hank doesn’t move away though and instead rests his fingers against his cheek lightly, thumb gently swiping across his skin.

“Connor… fuck, c’mere.”

Strong arms wrap around him, pulling him in until his side is flush against Hank’s chest. He realises belatedly that he’s shaking, fine tremors running through his body that make him tremble, and when Hank swipes his thumb across Connor’s cheek, the pad of it coming away wet, he realises that he’s crying.

“H-Hank,” he stammers, voice breaking, “Hank, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault-”

“Hey, hey now, shh, _shh_ ,” there are fingers running through his hair, smoothing it down and petting him gently. Connor swallows a shaky breath and turns into Hank’s chest, burying his face into his neck. He knows it must be uncomfortable for him, the rim of the bath jabbing into his midsection and Connor’s skin wet from the water, but he doesn’t say anything and Connor pushes closer, desperate for his touch.

“None of this is your fault Connor, Jesus. How could you think that?”

He sobs against Hank’s chest, tears staining the collar of his shirt. The words push against his tongue and he wants to swallow them whole, keep them locked away forever.

He knows he can’t; not anymore.

“Hank, it’s a-all my fault, all of it- I didn’t want you to know, I couldn’t tell you, I didn’t-”

He chokes, feels the petals press against the roof of his mouth when he coughs. Hank’s hands squeeze where they’re holding him and he presses his forehead against Hank’s throat, gritting his teeth against the suffocating pain.

“I didn’t want you to know how much I love you.”

His voice comes out in a whisper, strained behind gritted teeth. The flowers coating his throat settle back at his admission until he finally feels as though he can take a breath without the petals stifling his lung and he breathes in, closing his eyes as he exhales.

Hank freezes; Connor feels the way his body stiffens beside him, heartbeat picking up beneath his ribcage. It’s the type of reaction Connor had dreaded, though he knew it was the most likely outcome. He tries to pull away, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Hank’s fingers only tighten their hold on him.

“What… what did you say?”

Connor keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see the expression on Hank’s face. He opens his mouth, begins to apologize but Hank cuts him off. He repeats himself, asking again, “Connor, what did you say?”

He hesitates, fingers curling where they rest against Hank’s chest. He braces for the inevitable moment that Hank pushes him away and tells him to leave his sight. He sucks in a breath and lets it out on a trembling exhale.

“I love you, Hank.”

The relief at having said the words is overwhelming; Connor feels the weight of holding the words in lift from his shoulders, making him feel lightheaded with the sensation. His circuits feel fried by the intensity of the emotion and a part of him wants to laugh into Hank’s throat while another part of him wants to cry.

He supposes this is what it’s like to be alive.

Hank begins to pull away and Connor braces himself, knowing that the inevitable is finally about to happen. He opens his mouth on another apology and finds himself gasping instead when he feels Hank’s lips press desperately against his own.

Everything within him stills; his mind goes blank, his body stiffens, and his lungs stop working altogether. It’s as though he’s shut down, and it isn’t until Hank tries to pull away that Connor’s systems reboot themselves in time for him to reach out and crash Hank’s lips back against his.

The kiss isn’t gentle, is far from hesitant or sweet. It’s a hungry sort of kiss, desperate and needy and hard, teeth almost knocking together when they try to pull each other closer. Warm hands cling to water slick skin and Connor moans as he surges forward, pressing his body against Hank’s, no longer caring if he soaks his clothes straight through. He needs him, needs to taste him on his tongue, wants his hands to never stop touching him, mapping out the imperfections of his near perfect skin. His lungs feel as though they’re on fire and when he pulls away at last, he gasps, sucking in a hard lungful of air; it feels like the first time he’s breathed in years.

He opens his eyes and finds Hank already watching him, blue eyes piercing and beautiful. There’s a flower petal caught in the wiry hair of his beard and Connor reaches up with trembling fingers to pinch it in his grasp and pull it away.

“I love you.”

Air catches in his throat on an inhale; his fingers twitch where they hold the petal in the air.

“I love you Connor, you hear me? I love you.”

He reaches up, takes Connor’s hand within his own and brings it to his lips. His beard scratches against Connor’s hand when he leans down to press a lingering kiss to Connor’s palm, but Connor doesn’t mind. He relishes in the feel of it, of the slight burn it imprints on his skin.

“I love you,” his voice is a deep rumble and Connor feels it vibrate against his hand like thunder in the air before a storm.

“I love you,” a kiss to his palm, “I love you,” another, “I love you,” and another.

Connor watches him and feels the flowers in his lungs begin to fade.

Hank looks up at him, reaches up with his other hand to cup Connor’s jaw. He brushes his thumb against Connor’s cheek, catches the tear Connor hadn’t realised he was crying, and brings him down breathe softly, sweetly, against his parted lips.

“ _I love you_.”

Connor closes the distance, kisses him again and clings to him desperately. Tears stain his cheeks and the bathwater is getting cold, but he doesn’t care because none of it matters.

He _loves_ him.

And Hank loves him back.

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me on [tumblr](http://rainbow-randomness.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I do not give permission to have any of my works put up on goodreads or any other such site.


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